Tongue
by Secret Agent Codename Bob
Summary: "It felt natural. Normal. His right to lean over, close such seemingly negligible space between them and lick. Just a short, sharp movement along the other's neck. Fleeting. Barely a second of contact. Barely anything at all. But it was enough." A collection of one-shots all based upon some of Ed's favourite riddles. Part of the 'What Am I' series. Nygmobblepot. Post-Season Two.


~ Often held but never touched, always wet but never rusts ~

~ Often bites but seldom bit, to use me well you must have wit ~

~ What am I? ~

Ed stood at the foot of the Penguin's bed. Or rather, Ed stood at the foot of his own bed, of which the current occupant just happened to be the Penguin. The _Penguin_ ; in _his_ bed. The thought of that still got stuck in his head, like when you put too much paper in a shredder and the blades pitifully chop and chew at something which is just too big for them to swallow.

He'd felt like that a lot those last few days.

Oswald Cobblepot was sitting up, back resting against the metal beams and wall, head lowered so his mussed hair fell over his eyes. He was reading something. Like sparks flying from a welder's torch on metal Ed's thoughts spiralled - what was Oswald reading? Which of Ed's collection had he decided to peruse? What would that choice say about his pyschi, about his inclinations? Would it surprise Ed or only confirm his theories?

Ed sucked in a breath through his teeth.

He would need to find out. Every piece of information on the Penguin held immeasurable value.

Silence clung to the room as Ed waited. The air felt charged, time ticking away and even this was a game, a test. The clack of the second hand on the clock was an earthquake, the fringes of Ed's patience battered with each wasted second.

 _how long will you keep me waiting Mr Penguin?_

After precisely 137 seconds Oswald let out a long sigh.

"What do you want, Ed?"

Oswald did not look up. Ed smiled anyway.

"I can never be stolen from you yet I am owned by everyone. What am I?"

Oswald pinched his nose, face drawn. Ed felt a little thrum of excitement at the response.

"Remember what I said about not liking riddles?"

"Of course."

"Then you know why I'm not going to answer you."

"So you give up?"

It was an age old tactic and Ed almost felt bad at giving in to such a cliché, for the second time no less. Yet clichés are such for a reason and the change was palpable: those five words made the Penguin look up. Something darker shifted into place behind his storm cloud irises; blue hardened to steel, defiant, challenging. Ed lowered his head slightly and waited.

He did not have to wait long.

"Knowledge."

A strange feeling of pride pooled in Ed's stomach - except it wasn't really pride. It was more twisted than that, the same feeling which had prickled beneath his skin whenever Miss Kringle had said something particularly intelligent. A gnarled, ugly emotion: pride fused with pleasure and possessiveness.

 _look how well I've chosen_

"Correct." Ed grinned, more teeth than smile.

Oswald raised a lazy eyebrow; exasperation yet a begrudging agreement to listen. Ed rolled on the balls of his feet, trying to work some feeling back into his legs.

"Well, since you've so generously agreed to...mentor me in the art of killing and our last lesson went so well I wondered if perhaps we could stage another. But," Ed barrelled on, seeing the flicker of interest in his would-be roommates eyes die, "I thought we could mix things up a bit."

Oswald clicked his teeth shut. "I'm afraid you'll need to be a bit more specific than 'mix things up', friend."

"I mean, ultimately it's whatever you want. But my experience of ending life is, as we've already established, quite limited. I've read plenty of literature on the subject - a requirement in my line of work - yet reading and experiencing are two very different things. You however have quite a breadth of experience and-"

"Cut to the point Ed," Oswald said, tone light but laced with impatience.

"I want to watch you kill."

The 'k' left his mouth harsh and violent in the air which suddenly felt like a vacuum. Oswald's eyes widened fractionally, lips parting and Ed felt a short thrill at the realisation that he, little old unimportant Ed Nygma, could surprise the Penguin. A few seconds passed before Oswald spoke.

"You want to watch?"

Ed nodded, hair almost bouncing with the sharpness of the movement. "I want to learn from the best. And last time was a little too...brief."

Oswald cocked his head to the side, staring at Ed with startling intensity, lips pressed into a hard line, considering. He closed his book.

"Fine, so you want me to teach you." Oswald's eyes darted along the full line of Ed's body, assessing. "What do I get in return?"

"Anything."

Ed tried to not cringe at the speed the word left his lips. He had spoken too quickly, too honestly. But it was true - after all, the man in front of him was surely here by some act of fate or destiny and just as Ed had saved the Penguin from an agonising death, it would be Oswald that delivered Edward Nygma from the shackles of ignorance. Oswald was going to make him into the man he was supposed to be.

How could he deny him anything?

Oswald saw (of _course_ he saw) and once again, something shifted in his eyes. It was a darkness of a different kind - hungry, calculating. The kind of darkness which, if you weren't careful, could swallow you whole. Ed was entranced.

"Very well, Ed. You have a deal."

?

Adrenaline pulsed through Ed's body. With each pulse came noise, crashing against his ears like waves on rocks, overpowering, majestic. The noise...it sounded like applause.

The two of them were kneeling on the floor, newspaper crinkling beneath their knees. Oswald had insisted on being a little more...clean than they had before. Conservative. Clinical. Ed hadn't complained.

Act one had gone off without a hitch, the main demonstration completed with Oswald's particular brand of 'instructive teaching'. Then, once Oswald had completed his lesson sometime during the second act, Ed had been invited onto the stage - proceedings had gotten wrapped up quickly after that. Shame really, but it had been fun while it lasted.

And it would appear it had been exactly what Ed had needed. Murder and/or torture really was an incredible stress relief. At least, it could be when done right.

After the final curtain call (and an unexpected but pleasantly surprising encore) the two were finished. The body (male, homeless, approximately 40-50 years of age, impressive beard) lay beneath them, the pair having decided the floor was a better position than the chair to continue once Ed had joined. More skin exposed, more manoeuvrability, more room for the both of them to perform.

"Now _that_ , Mr Penguin," Ed began, unable to hold back a face splitting grin, "was truly fascinating."

"Friend, for the last time, it's _Oswald_." Although in word it was a rebuke there was no real heat or anger there. Oswald's eyes were flashing, the tight corners around his mouth and eyes gone - it seemed it had done the both of them some good.

Ed's grin grew a little wider.

Yes, the lesson had been incredibly insightful - the phrase 'armed with the knowledge' had never been more appropriate. Thanks to Oswald's rather thorough teaching Ed now knew just where the pain receptors in the body lay hidden beneath such flimsy, unprotective skin. Just how much pressure to apply. How much blood loss would result in unconsciousness. How to hurt but not numb. And all taught in a dizzying twenty-seven minutes. Oswald should set up classes.

Watching the Penguin work had been instructive. But just watching the Penguin- no, watching _Oswald_ had been breathtaking.

As soon as he'd started, knife hanging limply in one hand something had changed. He could switch on this _presence_ like flicking to another radio station, the air crackling with the anticipation of a thunderstorm on the horizon. It was a metamorphosis, a transformation from something injured to something deadly; intent and purpose clear in every line of his body.

Ed watched as Oswald Cobblepot vanished and the King of Gotham held court in his palace.

"I'll be sure to think of something you can do in return."

It took a moment for Ed to register that Oswald had spoken. He blinked, eyes focusing just a little too late because Oswald had already looked away, the tiniest hint of a smirk on his lips.

Ed felt the strange compulsion to swallow.

Oswald stared down at the body and reached across to retrieve an implement which was still impaled at an odd angle in the subject's neck. Ed took the opportunity to stare without being seen. Once more he drank in everything, once more cataloged each movement, each breath, each noise, filed them away under 'precious'.

It was intoxicating. Being this close to the King of Gotham. Close enough to reach out and touch. Surely this was more potent than any high, legal or not; the knowledge that ordinary Edward Nygma had eaten with him, laughed with him, _killed_ with him. Ed drew in a ragged breath. He'd never felt anything like it.

He wanted _more_.

 _Wait._ Ed frowned, something snagging in his vision like an erroneous symbol in an equation. As Oswald had begun to rigidly draw himself back up he'd tilted his head slightly, shifting the collar of those striped pyjamas. Oswald's neck lay beneath; white skin, unblemished but for a spattering of red.

Some stray spray of blood must have caught him. And after they had taken such great pains to be careful.

Well that just wouldn't do.

"Mr Penguin, wait, you've got something on your-"

Oswald opened his mouth but whatever words had been ready on his tongue never left it. Looking back Ed would often wonder what those words were. He would never know however because, for the first time in Edward Nygma's life, he stopped thinking.

Impulse and instinct.

It had felt natural. Normal. His right to lean over, close such seemingly negligible space between them and _lick_. Just a short, sharp movement along the other's neck. Fleeting. Barely a second of contact. Barely anything at all.

But it was enough.

Oswald tasted of iron. Iron and ash and some unfamiliar agent, as strong and rich and bitter as red wine, a mix that was undeniably unique to Oswald Cobblepot. Nothing else in the world would taste quite like that, like him. A heady blend of carnality and civility all in one. Poison and pleasure. Something hot and sticky started to pool in Ed's stomach as he realised: Oswald was delicious. Of course. How could he be anything else?

 _more_

Oswald stilled as soon as Ed's tongue met his skin. Unnaturally still. Under normal circumstances that would have been a warning sign, an ear-splitting alarm bell clearly screaming _stop_ , _apologise, grovel_ and you might live through this. Ed wasn't listening. Not with Oswald still so thick on his tongue.

 _I want more_

Ed hovered, mouth so, so close to the other's neck. There was that familiar feeling of catharsis; of letting go and giving in to this other darker self, being swamped by it, swallowed whole and made one with it. Once again Ed was welcoming something dark and primal with open arms, submission more like freedom each time.

 _I_ _need_ _ **more**_

The only sound was their breathing, shallow and perfectly synchronised. Ed looked down.

 _not all of the blood is gone - don't worry, I can fix that_

Ed leant down, slowly this time, so Oswald knew it was coming. The other didn't say anything. The only evidence that he'd felt anything at all was his hand closing into a fist around the lapel of Ed's jacket. To hold him there or pull him away Ed had no idea however no true move was made to stop him.

Ed took that as permission.

This time, he wasn't quick. This time, he was slow, languid, trailing the full length of his tongue inch by inch up the man's skin, ensuring he got every single drop. Ed let his eyes close, focusing all of his attention on his other senses: savouring every taste, everything sour and bitter, harsh and sweet, enjoying the texture of something coarse and barbed on soft, delicate skin. Completely and utterly tantalising and delicious and _beautiful_

 _you're beautiful you're so so beautiful Oswald I want to lick the skin off of every inch of you open you up peel you apart and see what secrets you're hiding inside what makes you tick what makes you perfect I won't hurt you I could never let me lick your bones taste your heart drink your blood and sweat and juices and everything will be delicious acrid sweet you I want you I want to devour Oswald let me give you everything do the same do whatever you want hurt torture me kill me just let me have you first I need you have never needed like this before you are beautiful so beautiful so_

The blood had spattered just across Oswald's pulse point - that was where Ed finished. His mouth closed with a wet noise and he swallowed around it. Ed didn't move, just left his mouth hovering over the other's beating pulse, hammering away beneath such a thin layer of skin.

Oswald spasmed lightly beneath him. His heart was beating so quickly Ed had a moment to worry it might break.

"Ed…" The word felt like an electric shock, something he felt rather than heard. Oswald's voice box was so close to his ear Ed could swear it reverberated through his very bones. Oswald's voice was laced with something, almost shaking with the weight of some emotion; it was angry, but it was desperate, it was warning, but it was longing. One syllable carried more meaning than a thousand thousand words ever could.

 _I've been waiting for you for so many years waiting and now you're mine Oswald I want you I need you and you are mine you are_

 _Rrrrring rrrring_

The sound of the phone split through the flat like a scream. Ed felt Oswald's pulse leap at the noise. Ed was sure his had as well.

Neither moved.

 _Rrrrriiiiiing rrrriiiiiiiing_

"Shouldn't you get that?" Oswald's voice was feather light.

 _RRRRRRRrrrriiiiiiiiiiing RRRRrrrriiiiiiiing_

Ed let out a long, hot breath against Oswald's neck. He heard a soft hiss in response.

"If you don't get it, I will."

Edward stood in one deft movement, taking excruciating care not to touch Oswald at all. The air of the apartment felt like treacle, thick and unrelenting as he walked across the room. Long measured strides. As if nothing was different. As if he didn't feel like his every cell had been set on fire, like he didn't feel more alive than he had in his entire life, that he wasn't prepared to murder whoever the hell had dared to ring him just at that moment.

His fingers thrummed with energy as he reached for the phone.

The caller didn't wait for him to answer. It was Jim Gordon. Of course. A bitter voice in the back of his head spat out acrid, black words that of course, _of course it would be Jim Gordon who would stand between him and the Penguin_.

It was more of a debriefing than a conversation. A series of orders: Ed was needed at the precinct. Forensics on a case. Urgent.

The phone clicked off without Ed offering anything more than a "mhmm".

Secretly he was glad. He wasn't sure he could trust himself to speak. Not with Oswald's bitterness still thick on his tongue. Who knew what that toxic collection of enzymes and liquids could do to his speech, how it would twist his words.

Ed put the phone down slowly. He didn't want to turn around yet. Where only moments before he had longed to see Oswald's face, his eyes, now nothing could have filled him with more dread.

The likelihood of turning around only to be met with pupils dilated in fury, not want, and a knife in his sternum, had just raised exponentially. The danger was incredibly real but all Ed felt was the headiest mix of fear and excitement, a cocktail of nerves and adrenaline. This could get addictive.

 _you're so far beyond falling and you don't even realise_

He let the silence fester for a while (eighty-two seconds) before he felt sufficient air in his lungs to speak.

"Sorry, that was work. Can't do without me it seems. I need to head out."

Good. That was good. His voice sounded only slightly strained, as if he'd lost it and it was now only just starting to come back. It didn't shake or rasp or reflect any of the roiling emotions threatening to claw their way up his throat.

Ed started to move about the flat, refusing to let his gaze drift over to the other. He needed to find his bag. "I'll be back...as soon as possible to clean up. This shouldn't take too long."

"I can take care of it." Oswald's voice cut through the air like a knife through flesh. Soft but not...not abnormal. Nothing to suggest murderous intent. Or maybe, that in itself suggested murderous intent. Ed wasn't sure, he was still so pathetically new at all this. And hadn't that been the damn point anyway?

He paused in his search and risked a glance behind him. Oswald was still on his knees, staring at the corpse with a blank, vacant expression which turned his features cold. A deliberate mask or a sign of genuine mental distraction? Ed wouldn't like to guess.

He looked incredibly small in that moment.

"Are you sure?"

Oswald waved his hand with no particular energy behind it, dismissive. Ed swallowed. The urge to continue just where they'd left off was staggering, want still unfurling in blinding white hot coils along his spine. It would be so easy, forget about Jim, close the gap between them and just devour. So easy, so right, just like it had felt natural to close his hands around Miss Kringle's neck and _squeeze_...

Ah! His bag was by the door the whole time. Silly him. He'd known that, hadn't he?

Hurriedly Ed shrugged on a coat. He had to get out, _now_ , while he still had the sufficient willpower to stop him from doing something incredibly stupid. As soon as Oswald had first opened his eyes in his tiny flat all of Ed's self control had gone out the window. If he didn't flee right then and there he was going to give in, let go, turn around and-

"You owe me Ed. Don't forget that."

Ed felt his insides freeze, every part of his skin burning with ice. Those words, spoken so softly, so gently and yet they carried the promise of iron and blood:

 _You will pay for that._

Without turning Ed spoke, barely loud enough to be heard.

"I'm sorry."

Quite what he was apologising for he didn't know: his departure, his act of impulse or his cowardice which once more prevented him from taking what he wanted. He didn't wait to see how it was received.

The lock clicked shut behind him.

 _~ Tongue ~_


End file.
